Sheep's Clothing One Size Fits All
by prinkism
Summary: Wolf puts his cart before the horse. Crime! Double-crossing! Pig tails! Oh my!


Disclaimer - Fairy Tales are public doman, bubbies. D I'm just messing with my favorite.

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To be honest, pork tasted just like any other dead thing when eaten raw, and he certainly had had no time to cook it before fleeing the scene. Twice. He was an "eat and run" ninja and no mistake. As it was, he was going to be picking hay and twigs out of his fur for months, but it'd all be worth it if he could just finish the job; after all, two out of three was a sixty-six success percentage, and that wasn't good enough. He'd always been something of a perfectionist, but no one had to know that.

"Ah, Mr. Wolf," he could hear her say upon his returning, allowing himself a moment of daydreaming while he slunk along the familiar back trails to the third dwelling of the pig brothers, eyes glossing over. "I see you've returned, successful I take it?"

He would nod then, and drop the tokens he'd been sent to get at her feet, along with the curly tails of the witnesses that neither of them could afford, two of which were now securely in a pocket. "You came highly recommended," she would say, collecting the objects and stowing them away in that horrid basket she always carried. Always. She would blather on about this or the other, probably about how the stupid matriarch should never have crossed her in the first place, yadda yadda yadda yes they all knew. Grandma had been entirely too trusting in her bodyguard, the same man that now stood "at ease" behind the girl next to the door. The wolf wouldn't say a word, standing there with his hands in his pockets and a satisfied smirk on his face and pretend like he was paying attention until it sounded like she was wrapping up. Then he'd cover his mouth in a yawn, the signal that the axmen and he had agreed upon prior to the meeting when more gold had changed hands and new alliances had been forged, only to be broken later of course for the highest bidder. They both knew that.

That would be the end of the little temptress then; there would be no more whispered attempts of seduction with honeyed words and empty promises of power. If he wanted power he'd get it himself, not by riding little red coattails and kowtowing to thick brown curls. He didn't think he would be able to bring himself to eat her corpse, though, not the way he'd disposed of her grandmother. The lumberman could have it; the wolf knew he'd take it. He would leave, then, not being enough of a fool to try to take the large human down too; some loose ends would have to be left loose. Besides, it wasn't as though he wasn't sharing equally in the blood. They would part on silent albeit uneasy terms.

That would be it for his dealings with that branch of insanity, thank goodness, but it certainly wouldn't be his last job. A wolf had to make a living somehow and it was so hard to find honest work when you were an inherently dishonest creature. Thankfully there was always someone somewhere who needed something taken care of and for the right price, he was the one who would love to take care of it. Maybe in the beginning he'd been cold and detached, but by now he was taking a perverse pleasure in the science of it, the method, and quickly developing his own style. Already his thoughts were wandering to the next town over; he'd heard there was something going on...some kind of new cartel advertising "poison apples" for the public. There 

were supposedly seven tools each taking run of a different turf and one dame lording over them. It was said her skin was as white as snow 'cause she "ate so many apples" –whatever that meant- and never came out into the sun. Women. Far as he was concerned they were the root of so many problems. 'Course he only felt that way because he didn't have one of his own, or so he'd been told in a pub once by a shit-faced troll who had been babbling on about some goats or something giving him hell. Playing loud music all the time so he couldn't sleep. Trampling his flower gardens. Yeah well, maybe the wolf didn't want one of his own. He'd end up a tool like the rest of them.

Except for that Charming bastard; that grinning fool had it going on. He'd been caught with three wives in three different kingdoms and still managed to come out of it sparkling clean. The press had been all over him, but he'd copped some plea about how it was his job as a prince to help all those damsels in distress. They'd bought it. Some men had all the luck.

Speaking of luck, the little porker seemed to be home. The wolf pulled himself out of his daydreams of a little bit of the good life once Red paid him and started circling the house. It was cute, a little red brick number, one-story, couple of windows, probably a one-roomer with a bed in the corner if this big brother was anything like his younger siblings. Well, this little spy wasn't going to murder himself, now was he? It was time to go. He straightened up, fixing the pockets on his overalls so they didn't stick out and look like wings, and walked up to the door bold as brass. Hey, there wasn't any sense in messing with what worked. Three hard raps on the wood, just like the other houses, and then an introduction: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in..."

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And the rest, as they say, is history.


End file.
